


Dollhouse

by heizl



Series: Marvel One Shots [12]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1920s, Canon - Comics, Childhood, Chronic Illness, Emotions, F/M, Family, Fatherhood, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, One Shot, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: Could they do it again? Were they ready to be new parents, and embark again on this endless adventure? Did they even want to? There was no one simple straight path to fatherhood, instead full of twists and turns and sticks and stones. Their sons death had been such a sudden disaster, the both of them had gone to seek a counselor. In secret. Didn't let anyone know they went to therapy once a week, together. But neither of them could move on from a pain like that.They were excited about Steve, of course, why wouldn’t they be. So happy to have a new son to welcome to the family, eager for the memories they'd share together; his first birthday party, picnics at the park, watching as he grew older, became a man. But, they had a quantum ton worth of pressure in their hands. And Joe was terrified. Matthew wasn’t supposed to die. He’d only had a common cold. That was the kind of shit life threw at you, curve balls no one wanted to even theorize.But when he held his son, all bundled up, with his blond tufts and beaming blue eyes, he was in love. He knew he could do this. Wouldn't be easy, sure. But nothing in life was.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Joseph Rogers & Steve Rogers, Joseph Rogers/Sarah Rogers
Series: Marvel One Shots [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211331
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Dollhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marvel Amino elite. Theme of the month was love.

A low static hum from a radio was like a gentle ambiance in the stuffy, sunny room— though the harsh clash of drums from a marching band outside overpowered that tranquility, at least a bit. Today was the fourth, which meant people loitering the streets, and busy bars. An exciting day full of energy and cheer, but also a day that held a more  _ significant  _ meaning for the Rogers.  The whites of the walls seemed even brighter that day, maybe even  _ so _ bright that Joseph had to squint his eyes, focus on his wife's face instead. How she looked unsure, yet still wore a wide smile. Her hand was held in his own, his larger fingers stroking over hers. Together they were patiently waiting for their son to come back to them. Their brand new baby boy that'd been born mere minutes ago. And of course, they were both filled with anxiety. The kind that vibrates through your muscles, shocks you to your very core, and leaves you feeling helpless.

They weren't first time parents; they knew  _ what  _ to expect, they knew the textbook rules of what to  _ do _ , read all the parenting books one could buy from posh stores in NYC. But it's life that's the unexpected aspect, always is— for example, they weren't planning to get pregnant again. At least not so soon after Matthew's death.  When Sarah started complaining about her back hurting, Joe was worried. She had her share of health problems (hell, they  _ both _ did), and he'd thought it was another flare up, like the usual. Until they went out for dinner one night to celebrate a friend's anniversary, and Sarah lost it over the smell of salmon, excusing herself to the bathroom for far too long. He knew she was pregnant. Could never stand fish when she was carrying Matthew.

So they made an appointment the next morning, and found out she was pregnant that day. And they cried when they got home, full breaking down sobbing. Because, could they do it again? Were they  _ ready _ to be new parents, and embark again on this endless adventure? Did they even want to? There was no one simple straight path to fatherhood, instead full of twists and turns and sticks and stones.  Matthew's death had been such a sudden disaster, the both of them had gone to seek a counselor. In secret. Didn't let anyone know they went to therapy once a week, together. But there were times Joe would be at work, or sitting in their living room, reading a newspaper, and he'd catch Matthew's face from the corner of his eye. Still hear the way he’d call out ‘dad’ from the other room, and it would send chills down his spine.

They were excited, of course, why wouldn’t they be. So happy to have a new son to welcome to the family, eager for the memories they'd share together; his first birthday party, picnics at the park, watching as he grew older, became a  _ man _ . But, they had a quantum ton worth of pressure in their hands. Matthew wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to die. He’d only had a common cold, the kind he’d gotten countless times before. But his body couldn’t fight it that time. 

Going against the building silence between them (it wasn't entirely uneasy, more so they didn't have much to say right now), Sarah quietly spoke in Gaelic, "you know what I was thinking?"

He stroked his thumb over the back of her palm. " _ English _ , dear. We need to get in the habit of speaking it around him."

She sucked in her lips. So he leaned forward, kissing her forehead. Still a habit of theirs; they more often than not spoke in Gaelic, but that's something they agreed upon. Raising their kid to only speak English. Would probably be better in his favor anyways if no one knew his parents were immigrants.

Joe, in English now, asked, "what did you have on your mind, darlin’?”

“Steven,” she said. They still hadn't come to settle on a name they both liked. Only about a hundred were thrown on the table and disregarded. “Like your father.”

“Hm,” he chuckled, soft. “That sounds nice. Steven Grant Rogers. Y’like that more than James?”

She nodded. “And more than just  _ ‘Grant’ _ .” 

He'd ran the idea through his mind again.  _ Steven _ . He never had the best relationship with his dad growing up; typical angry, drunk Irish man. He’d grown up on a family run farm, and his father woke up at dawn, didn't finish working until dusk. Worked his ass off to make sure he kept his family fed, and sold crops to keep a house over their heads. End of the day and he'd come inside, kick back with a bottle of Whiskey, and take out his aggressions on his mother. Always made sure to do it behind closed doors, but Joe had peeked a few times. Few times  _ too many _ .

There was respect he  _ did _ have for his father. A strong, self driven military man with deep family values. Of course, that's what he thought  _ before _ his drinking got worse, and the abuse started. But maybe their kid could take back that name and put a different meaning to it. Replace a bad memory with a better one, perhaps. “I like it too.”

The door creaked open, and Joe strained his neck to look at his baby. A nurse held him in her arms, all bundled in a soft, plush blue blanket that matched his curious eyes. He had light tufts of blond, and, he really did look like his mother. Like an angel, his small cherub cheeks were flushed.

“Five pounds, nine ounces. He’s a bit on the smaller side, but seemingly healthy," she approached them with a smile, handing him to Sarah. “Congratulations, mama.”

“Oh,  _ Joe _ ." Tears streamed down her cheeks that were casting a warm honey glow. Might’ve been her tenth cry of the day, but Joseph took in his own shaky breath. He reached out to touch their son, tickling at his cheek, a smile forming across his thin, pink lips. 

He stroked his thin strands of hair back. His son— yes,  _ Steve, _ that name just felt  _ right _ for him— studied him with curious azures, trying to make sense of the world around him. 

"He's perfect."

* * *

“Home sweet  _ home _ ,” Joe said with a kick to their old stubborn door, kissing his wife on the cheek. Their first day back home with their new baby boy, and there was already a lump in his throat. Their apartment wasn’t much; honestly, the biggest they could afford in Brooklyn within their budget— which meant a 545 square foot single bedroom flat with a shared bath, noisy neighbors, and a barely kitchen. They’d moved apartments after Matthew, god, they had to. Settled in the heart of Bushwick.

With Sarah not being to work much over the past few months, Joseph did his best to pick up extra shifts on the docks, help out occasionally at the local general stores when he found the time. He found it harder to keep a steady, alright paying job since coming back from the war. Any benefits he got from being dishonorably discharged didn’t hold up to their living expenses, and the money drainer that was New York. And, Sarah did try to work, much to everyone’s distress, telling her to take it easy, for the baby’s sake at least, working until she was about ready to pop. But, that was Sarah— pushing herself past her limits,  _ always _ . One of the qualities of her that had Joe falling head over heels madly in love with her.

Joseph wanted to give his son everything they couldn’t give Matthew. Be there for them both, never leave their sides. Almost like it was a nagging pressure, to make sure Steve’s world was perfect, carved from fine marble. Worked double morning and night shifts to afford a brand new wooden crib, with lush blankets and bedding, splurging on things they didn’t  _ need _ . They’d donated all of Matthew’s baby things to their church— the memories were so bitter, of every piece of cloth he  _ touched _ , the building blocks he’d kick around.

They needed a new start. A do-over. To have something go right in their lives for once. It was like only death and agony surrounded them lately— with the passing of Sarah’s mother, then soon after Joe’s father. The clothes they’d amassed for Steve were hand me downs, from friends, a few  _ living _ relatives. And some of the toys were also second hand donations. But they were  _ new _ , didn’t carry that heavy energy with them.

Sarah had kept Steve cradled to her since they left the hospital, like they were bonded by glue. But he could see the wear in her eyes, the exhaustion sweeping over her face. Standing inside now, with the most peace and quiet they were going to get for a long while, and she began coughing, moving over to the couch with a quiet shuffle.

“Dear,” he said, hanging up his coat on a rack. “You need to eat. Rest, too. I don’t think you’ve slept much the past few days, have you?”

“Mm,” she hummed, her head lulling back. “Not for the past,” she paused, mouthing to herself, “thirty eight hours.” 

“Alright,” he said with an understanding chuckle. He pulled a glass from the pantry and filled it up with water, as cold as he could get it. He handed the cup to her, massaging her tense shoulders as she let out a throaty sigh. “How’s about I make you something for dinner, and you go lie down? I can look after him.”

She peeked an eye open, looking at him wearily. “Are you sure?”

He nodded with a gentle smile, kissing her temple. “It’s not our first go around. C’mon, you  _ need  _ your rest.” Taking her elbow, he helped her into their room. He flicked on the ceiling fan, also nudging open the window because it  _ was  _ a bit stuffy. Reflected in the glass of the window, bright flashes of pink and green lit up the night’s sky. “Now would you look at that.”

“Beautiful,” she said with a yawn, stretching out on their bed, covers kicked away. Her eyes already began to flutter, and he carefully scooped Steve from her. Their son was also not particularly conscious— a sort of in between, dozing and then curiously glancing around, before dozing off again. He’d had quite an adventure that day.

“Rest,” he said, brushing her hair back before leaving the room, wood creaking under his feet. He kept Steve close to his body, fingers tracing down the curve of his slender chin. There was a tug in his chest. 

“I love you,” he said quietly to the snoring boy. And it was from that moment Sarah had to practically  _ fight  _ to hold her son. Joe was infatuated.

* * *

Steve grew; not fast, particularly. He was a smaller child, always looking a few years younger than he really was. Which, that bothered him a lot— Joe would catch him staring at himself in the long mirror outside the bedroom door. Sometimes scrunching his nose up in disgust, poking at himself, tugging on his clothes that never sat snug. He’d been such a peaceful child growing up (at least, until school came). Oh, he  _ loved _ fairs. Favorite place in the world was sitting on his dad’s shoulders, watching fireworks as he pointed out each flash of color back to his parents. Ooing and aweing in childish wonder. It was a wonder to see how his mind worked.

Joe did his best to give Steve  _ everything  _ he wanted. Not to make him a spoiled brat, but  _ happy _ . Desserts for breakfast, the newest toys and comics he loved skimming. His smaller troublemaking tendencies started to show when he’d scribble on the walls; if his parents left for a few minutes to go to the store down the block and get something for dinner, they’d come back to picture books all over their white walls. He only wanted to draw, Joe knew that, and so he saved up to buy him a leather bound sketchbook and some charcoal. He was so eager to start drawing, and he really had a knack for it.

Occasionally he’d surprise them both with a trip to Coney Island. Much more for sightseeing and the beach than any attraction (Steve easily got carsick, God could only imagine how he’d react on a ride). Steve enjoyed playing in the sand, creating sand mounds and moats. He’d take them out for a well cooked meal at a place in Manhattan, a day for ice skating when the weather permitted. 

And then, the honeymoon phase finally wore off. He started school, public school. Younger than everyone in his class because of his late birthday. And he wasn’t like the rest of the boys; slender, soft spoken, kept to himself. He was always observing his surroundings, studying people rather than talking to them, using them as muses for stories he’d later sketch out for himself. He liked reading much more than playing outdoors. He was teased, and soon his parents realized— he didn’t have any friends. Not that that was  _ concerning _ , but it did make them wonder. They tried to get Steve to be social. Signed him up for soccer, but he didn’t like it. Signed him up for boy scouts, but still, he wouldn’t speak to anyone except his parents at the end of the day. He hated their camping trips.

Though, it was little league he seemed to  _ actually _ enjoy. He’d always loved going to the Dodgers games with his dad. Practice days always seemed to pull him out of bed, bring a smile to his face when nothing else did. Until the day Steve had a game that he didn’t sit out on. The one game the entire season Joe couldn’t make it to. And when he’d got there, all he was met with was commotion. The blaring of sirens, a crowd of people, a woman yelling. He tried to push forward through the crowd, and then he saw… it was his son, limp on the field with a team of paramedics surrounding him. 

Doctors pulled them into an office at the hospital. Steve was sat upon an examination table, timidly peering at his parents, picking at the green paper robe he was forced into. The doctor, with his dark slicked back hair and smooth speech, explained to them this: Steve passed out in the middle of the game, maybe from dehydration, is what his team had  _ assumed _ . And they’d noticed how shy he was, when it took them nearly ten minutes to coax any information out of him. Once he started talking, about how it felt like he couldn’t breathe, how he usually felt out of breath in crowded situations like that, they started to suspect anxiety. Attachment issues. And their ultimatum was either highly controversial, and highly  _ expensive,  _ hypnotherapy, done by a child psychologist at the state asylum. Or forced integration with other kids his age.

They signed Steve up for more extracurricular activities. Attended their churches weekly potlucks and picnics, finally had him registered for Sunday school. But that’s when it only got  _ worse.  _ He still wasn’t making friends, and he spent more time curled up in his bed. 

Joe stepped inside their apartment after a long day of work, calling out a soft “ _ I’m home _ ,” when he knew something was wrong. The radio was off, lights were all turned on though, and Sarah was sniffling. Steve was sat on the couch, her arms wrapped around his back, comforting him with soft coos. 

His first black eye, of many. The kids finally had enough of him and lured him outside of the school after class ended. They ganged up on him; stole his bag, ripped his drawing apart in front of him, bruised his ribs, his face. No one at school cared, instead insisted Steve had been the one to start the fight. Joe had to bite his tongue to not get his own son expelled. After this Steve started hesitating when he walked out the door in the morning,  _ begging _ his mom not to make him go to school. Sometimes she caved and let him stay. Until they started to receive worrying letters about his lack of attendance. 

It was an early Friday morning a few weeks before the end of the school year. Sarah left around four, like she usually did when she worked a double, kissing Joe on her way out the door. Sometimes Joe liked to take Steve to get donuts and chocolate milk before the bell rang. Gave them time to chitchat, catch up on the moments he missed during the day when he’d be slaving away on the docks. But that day, that grim morning, Steve flatout refused to leave. Planted his feet in the ground and denied his dad’s eye. 

Joe couldn’t be persuaded as easily as his wife. He got it; he was bullied in school too, but if he let Steve stay home one more day, he could be held  _ back _ from how much he missed that year. He ruffled his hair sympathetically, but Steve pushed him away. Joe held his breath. He’d seen Steve angry, but not like this. Not tempermental to the point he’d yell back at his own father, storm away when he tried to pull him towards their car.

He put up a fight, wiggling and yelling, tossing and turning, using all his might. When he muttered a tired, “ _ Let me fucking go _ ,”, he was met with the back of Joe’s hand. Where the hell did he even learn those words? He was always so careful not to curse around him.

But Joe quickly realized what he’d done, and he felt ice cold. His eyes burnt, and he instantly fell to his knees, cupping his child’s face. His cheek was bright red. He’d promised himself he’d  _ never _ lay a hand on his kids, never be the way his dad was to him and his brothers. He loved his family, more than anything. He didn’t want to  _ hurt _ them. But god dammit, Steve was setting him off. Triggering some tucked away memory in his brain.

He apologized, and Steve still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Again with the coaxing, telling him they still had time to pick up a treat before class. But Steve was silent, obviously in shock, and looking like a ragdoll. He hoisted him over his shoulder, and Steve started kicking.  _ Why _ was he putting up such a fight? Was the bullying  _ that  _ bad? Would they have to switch schools for him,  _ again _ ? 

Until the kicking stopped, and Joe reached their car. He hoisted Steve  _ gently _ into the backseat, when he saw his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. 

It wasn’t anxiety or attachment issues he had. Their very fucking nightmare was coming true. Steve was hospitalized. The tests were long and drawn out, with vague and much to be desired results. They’d found out he had a weak heart, just like his mother. Weak lungs too, which explained his fatigue and troubled breathing— later diagnosed asthma, but the disease was still misunderstood and being studied. Joe knew a guy from work that suffered from it, heard tales about his parents sending him to the state’s pediatric wing on the asylum, because doctors refused to believe it was a physical thing. Anytime you displayed a symptom that wasn’t understood, and you were deemed mentally unstable. The same shit they’d heard; asthma was just a way of acting out for attention, a mental problem that could be solved through talk therapy.

He had a curved spine, maybe something to do with his stunted growth. A very sensitive stomach too. It was a miracle he’d even survived this long, the doctors told them after his conditions only seemed to worsen. He’d fallen ill while in the hospital, battling what started as a common cold, turned pneumonia. He missed the last days of school. Covered by a doctor’s note, but that was only the beginning of the ongoing nightmares for the Rogers family.

* * *

They didn’t go to the fair that year. No fourth of July parties or celebrating fireworks, not even his mother’s applesauce cake. Instead it was sitting by Steve’s bedside in agony as he only seemed to get sicker. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t drink. He’d sleep for what seemed like days on end. And Joe oftentimes found himself stopping by the bars after sixteen hours of work. Come home at dusk, reeking of cheap booze, only causing tension with Sarah.  They traveled all across New York, from Greenwich to Rochester, listening to so called specialists look at their son, stumped. He’d been put on a cocktail of medications, making his body so stunned he could never keep down dinner. Sarah worked herself into a coughing fit, Joe only coped with a bottle of Whiskey by his side, and Steve’s college funds dwindled away.

Joe begged his boss to spare him some cash upfront, a week before his paycheck. Pleaded for more hours. Asked the church for dire donations, skipped on electrical bills. They were running out of money, but Joe would be damned if he lost another son. A parent wasn’t supposed to bury their kid. And, especially, not  _ twice _ . 

His boss heard enough from him. He was on such thin ice that when he asked him for another early bonus, Hank threw his hat down and let him hear what he had to say. No filters, no nice words. He was fired. And that night, he didn’t go home. Spent the rest of what he had in his pocket at a bar until he woke up to an officer pulling him to his feet. He knew the fella. Jim. Knew him way before he was drafted, before Matthew. He escorted him home.

“ _ You have a kid, Joe. A kid and a wife, that  _ need  _ you. The hell you doing?” _

He cried a lot that night. Possibly more than he’d like to admit. Sarah held him in her arms as Steve softly snored from the other room. They’d already planned to move. Another smaller place, without any real space to get away from each other. But it was cheaper. She stroked his hair, reassured him everything was going to be okay. 

They kept newspapers stockpiled in their home. He religiously checking listings, stopping by any store with a help wanted sign. But no one wanted him. No one seemed impressed with his meager resume, no one seemed to care that he had a wife and sick son he needed to buy pills for. He started to test his limits on how much one man could drink.

Now a day before a fresh year of school started, and Steve was back on his feet. Not cured or recovered— and as the docs explained, it would come in bouts. Sometimes he’d be full of creative energy, frolicking outside and enjoying life. Other times his bones would ache and he’d again be bed ridden. But, for now, Steve was okay. More relieved to be starting fresh at a new elementary. And on the plus side, Joe had been able to spend more time with his son not working such crazy hours.

He was sitting beside his dad on the docks, feet dangling above the water. Steve was holding a fishing pole tightly in his hands. Behind them was a cooler, and Joe reached into it, pulling out another can of beer. Steve watched him carefully.

They hadn’t gone fishing since Steve was… well, it’d been a few years at least. Something Joe found relaxing, something they could do together when Sarah was with her knitting friends, or needed a quiet day to herself. Steve seemed to rather enjoy it too. The smile he’d had when he got his first catch— Joe would never forget it. Toothy and blissful. 

The waves were quiet, seagulls background noise. And Steve quietly asked him, “Dad?”

“Hm?” he hummed into his can.

“Why…” Steve quickly glanced at him. “Why do you drink so much?”

Joe closed his eyes. “You know how when you get hot headed and need a way to relax, you grab one of your sketchbooks?”

Steve nodded.

“This is my sketchbook,” he swirled the can, then pulled Steve closer, kissing his forehead. “Nah, don’t worry, Stevie. Ain’t too much. Docs said I’m still healthy as a clam.” He lied through his teeth. He wasn’t. He was killing his liver. But being present in reality wasn’t an option right now.

* * *

Steve walked into the unfamiliar classroom, full of new curious faces. His parents had already left when he glanced back at the door, though a few others still lingered. All the seats were already full, in the front at least. And he’d noticed how  _ nice _ everyone was dressed; button downs without a single wrinkle in them, designer pinafores. He started making his way to the back, clutching the strap of his rucksack.

“Who’s the new kid?” they whispered. 

“I don’t know, don’t talk to him,” they sneered.

He took a seat at the very last table, tucked away in a corner with no one else. The classroom’s layout was spacious, with colorful painted walls and bulletin boards full of drawings. Instead of the typical one person desks you were assigned to all year, there were round tables spread out. Each accompanied by five chairs. Plastic baskets on each one contained pencils, safety scissors, erasers, and other general supplies, as well as a stack of blank papers. 

Right as the bell began to ring, and the teacher stood to close the door, a brunet boy rushed into the room. He seemed out of breath, hunched over, like he had to run there. Not dressed as fancy as the others, actually looked a bit scrappy, with his untidy hair and scuffed sneakers. And apparently that was something habitual for him when she said, “ _ James _ . First day and you’re already late?”

“Technically,” he said, inhaling sharply, “I ain’t late.”

“ _ Technically _ , you should already be sitting,” she retorted. “Go and find a spot, please.” As she said that, he narrowed his eyes, scanning the room. A girl waved at him and he waved back, still looking, before locking eyes with Steve. He shrugged and pulled out the chair beside him, dropping his book bag to the floor. 

Steve glanced at him, and the kid— James?— looked back. He spoke low as the teacher introduced herself. “Why you sittin’ back here all alone?”

“Uh,” Steve stammered, fidgeting with his fingers. “I don’t really know anybody. So I just,” he trailed off.

“They ain’t offering you a seat up there, huh?”

Steve shook his head.

The kid rolled his eyes. “Figures. Buncha idiots anyways. Name’s James, by the way, but my friends sometimes call me Bucky. Where’d you come from?”

“S-Steve. And uh, the public school a few streets over.”

“Why? Parents move?”

He pursed his lips. “Kids gave me a black eye.”

He nodded solemnly, patting Steve on the shoulder, making him tense. He always instinctively flinched when someone touched him. He’d never even been  _ hugged  _ by someone that wasn’t family before. “Know how that is. Get in a lot of fights myself. Kids always mean to me ‘cause I ain’t got no dad.”

Steve’s brows lowered. “You don’t?”

“Nuh uh. Haven’t got one since before I was born, ma said.”

“Oh. Sorry—”

“It’s  _ okay _ ,” he laughed. “I’ve gotten used to it. House is full anyways. Got two older sisters.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“Yeah. They’re annoying as hell.”

Steve giggled. And that’s when their teacher put her hands on her hips, releasing a puff of air. Irritated, she said, “James,  _ please  _ quiet down and set a good example for our new student.”

“ _ Yes _ , Mrs. Walsh,” he replied, sing songy.

“Now, class,” she started scrawling against the chalkboard, and it was like sentences morphed into a singular word. Steve squinted, trying to scoot his chair a little closer, when James nudged his side. 

“Hey. You can’t see?”

“Huh?”

James replicated the way he was looking; hunched over the table with his nose scrunched up, eyes half closed. “You were just sitting like this. Y’can’t see the board?”

Steve scratched his neck. “It’s a little blurry.” And so James raised his hand, waiting until she noticed him. 

“Excuse me, but Steve can’t see.” 

“Oh,” her eyes widened. “Tracy, Alice, trade places with them, please.”

“But,  _ Mrs. Walsh, _ ” one of the girls whined, and Steve didn’t know if it was Alice, or the other one. Whatever she’d just said her name was. 

“No buts. Please. Not everyone has perfect vision.”

With more whines and groans, the two girls stood up, allowing Steve and  _ Bucky _ to switch with them. Steve looked at Bucky again, smiling. To which he only smiled back.

* * *

James and Steve were inseparable, attached at the hip. Anywhere Steve went, James followed, and vice versa. He was a new addition to the Rogers household, quickly becoming Joe’s third son. And they were glad that for the first time, Steve had a friend. Someone he could talk to that wasn’t just Sarah, someone that made him laugh, never made him stop smiling. There were things they weren’t telling Steve. About the upcoming move. About Matthew, and his death still. Or the diagnosis his dad had gotten only a few days ago. His drinking was catching up to him, but it wasn’t like he  _ could  _ stop. Still jobless, oftentimes hopeless too. But he counted on James to take care of his son. Be there for him.

He worried about Sarah, of course. That was what triggered his first violent outburst, when she’d told him she could take care of herself. Accused her of thinking about remarried after his death, yelled about how he’s supposed to be the man and take care of them. She was strong, he knew this. Strongest woman, strongest person he knew. And she’d already been through her mourning at his appointments. She’d do whatever she could to keep her baby safe.

It was a night when they’d all gone to a potluck held by the school, both families with their kids. Sarah and Joe had become close with Winnifred, James’ mother, like she was a shared best friend for them. They’d have her over for tea, sometimes wine if the kids were off playing. 

Joe was getting sicker. He could feel it in his bones. Hack up phlegm in the morning, skin looking paler than a ghost, sweats if he didn’t drink almost hourly. He was clutching to the end of his ropes. But still, he couldn’t tell Steve. Couldn’t break his fishing buddy’s heart like that.

Steve and James had made it away from the noise of the crowded gathering, running around outdoors, kicking sticks. Nippy as it was nearly fall, but still pleasant enough. He shoved his hands in his pockets, sauntering over to the boys. Steve looked up at him, smiling. He ruffled his hair, patting his back.

“Stevie, why don’t you go back inside to your mother? I wanna talk to James for a second. Man to man.”

“Uh,” Steve’s forehead creased. “He ain’t in trouble, is he?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Okay,” he said soft, hugging James before walking back towards the building, glancing over his shoulder again.

“Mr. Rogers,” James said, his voice cracking. Joe slung his arm around his small back, leading him over to a bench, under a tall pine tree. “How many times do I have to tell you James; call me  _ Joe _ ?” 

“At least a few more, sir. Is,” he looked at him, folding his hands. “Is Steve okay?”

Joe chuckled. “Yes, son. He’s alright. No it’s… nothing serious, I just wanted to sit down and talk to you. Are  _ you _ doing okay?”

James nodded.

“Sisters treating you right?”

“ _ Usually _ .”

He thought for a moment, then he leaned back. “You love Steve, don’t you?”

“Yes,” James sounded a little caught off guard, his already squeaky voice growing higher. “I mean, he’s my best friend. Only friend, really. Makes me really happy.”

“He loves you too. He, well, he had it rough before he met you. Being an only child and not feelin’ well enough to play with the others.”

“They’re really mean to him at school.  _ Both _ of us.”

“And that’s why we’re always getting calls from the principal, right?”

“...usually. I’m only trying to protect him.”

“I know, James. You’re always gonna be there for him.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Always. ‘Til the end of the line.”

“What?” he looked at the younger boy.

“Oh, uh. That’s what we always say t’each other. That we’re gonna be best buds, ‘til the end of the line.”

He rubbed his shoulder again. “How about we go back inside, hm?”

“Sure,” he smiled. Joe led them back inside, and the crooning of saxophones hit him like an instant headache. But he saw his son’s face light up as James ran back over towards him.

Sarah looked at him and set a cup down behind her, feeling his forehead with the back of her palm. “You’re burning up.”

“I was thinking Steve could stay at Winnie’s tonight.”

“Honey, I… do you really think it’s best not saying anything?”

“I don’t think he would understand, even if we explained.”

“Winnie lost her husband. She could always—”

“Sarah,  _ no _ . I’m not telling my son his,” he lowered his voice, “his father is on death’s door. That’s not something I’m willing to do to him.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a lot easier to explain  _ after  _ you’re gone, then.”

Joe began coughing, patting his chest when Winnie walked over to them, her brows raised. “Is everything alright?”

“You know Joe, always working himself up,” Sarah ran her hand down his bicep, sighing.

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he hissed. “Say, Winn, do you mind Steve staying the night, tonight? No pressure, I just know he’d like to,” he focused on the pair, watching them talk to another boy.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t mind at all. You know he’s always welcome.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “I think we were actually going to leave soon. Joe needs to get his rest.”

“Still feeling under the weather?”

“I said I’m  _ fine _ .”

Sarah rubbed his hand, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Dear, let’s go say goodnight to Steve, alright?”

“Fine,” he chewed at his lip. Walking over to Steve, the pair looked at them in unison. He bent down to lift Steve into his arms, pulling him onto his hip. He kissed his forehead. “Hey, Stevie. Wanna know what I heard?”

“What?”

“Winnie said you could sleep over tonight.”

Steve’s mouth dropped open, excitedly looking back at James. “Buck, did you hear that?”

“Really?” James asked, his eyes sparkling.

“Mhm,” Joe said with another small cough. Sarah rubbed Steve’s cheek. “We’ll come to get you in the morning. You best behave, you hear me?”

Steve nodded. “I will.”

Joe set Steve down, ruffling James’ hair. “And you make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble, alright?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“I love you, Steven.”

“Love you too, dad,” then he looked at Sarah, “and mom.”

“Goodnight, boys,” Sarah said. “Love you too, sweetie.”

Sarah smiled at them before waving at Winnie and leaving. Once they were outside, Joe pulled a small metal flask from his coat pocket, twisting the top off.

“Joseph!” she scolded.

“ _ Don’t _ ,” he warned, taking a few swigs before stuffing it away.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This story combines a few different canons, and honestly, I just wanted to write about his dad and have him alive for once. And kind of put in some of my own ideas about the Rogers family. Joseph was an abusive raging alcoholic in the comics (though triggered after he lost his job), but he also had a close relationship with Steve and did love his family dearly. Also also the family dynamic changes a lot in the comics, and movies so it's all over the place ugh.
> 
> I'd found a photo from earth-12041 of Steve and his dad fishing, with 'my best fishing buddy' written on it, which inspired a lot of this story. Steve loved his dad more than anything and was heartbroken when he died.
> 
> This 100% would be something I'd love to turn into a series in the future, like all of Steve's childhood, and with Bucky. Maybe next time hueh


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